Bright Smoke, Cold Fire

  Slowly, carefully, she unwove the seal. Every time another trembling strand of magic loosed itself, she held her breath, wondering if this one would set off an alarm. Every time she started to pull on a new thread, she fumbled at first for a grip, wondering if this one would be immovable.

  As Runajo undid the magic in her mind, the door unwove itself as well. Solid, smooth stone peeled up in slender white ropes that spiraled gracefully upward to form an arch, layer after layer, until all that was left was a thin film of white dust clinging to her hand. She shook her fingers, and the dust fell away.

  Runajo let out a breath. I did it, she thought. Her shoulders were cramped and aching, there was sweat trickling down the back of her neck—she had no idea how long she’d been working—but she had done the impossible. She had opened the door into the Sunken Library.

  Perhaps this plan would actually work.

  Through the door was a dark, narrow hallway. Runajo could see only a little way inside, because the only light came from outside, where she stood with Juliet; but that was why she had brought along two little lamps—white stone spheres that glowed with a cool, steady light—each on a chain that could hang from the neck, so they could have their hands free.

  She had also brought a little jar of healing ointment, which she rubbed against the cut on her palm. Once the hot tingle of rapidly healing flesh began, she tucked the jar back into her robe.

  “You’re the one with the swords,” she said to Juliet. “You first.”

  Juliet nodded and stepped inside. Runajo was right on her heels. This time she only had to tap the archway, and the door wove itself back together. It liked to be closed.

  And they were in the Sunken Library.

  “Well,” said Juliet after a moment, “it’s smaller than I expected.”

  “This is just the vestibule,” said Runajo. “It wasn’t even part of the library, back before it was closed off.”

  And we’d better keep to talking silently, she added. So the revenants don’t hear us.

  Juliet raised her eyebrows.

  Yes, I rescind my order to stay out of my head, said Runajo. You enjoy making me clarify everything, don’t you?

  I’m the sword of the Catresou, said Juliet. Slavish obedience is my specialty.

  There was something inexpressibly warm about her sarcasm. It was like . . . Runajo was actually not sure that anyone had ever talked to her that way, and probably Juliet was hearing her think this right now.

  How do we keep our thoughts separate? she asked Juliet.

  You make a wall inside yourself, said Juliet. And then you practice for at least five years.

  But Runajo had already had a lot more than five years’ experience locking herself away. Again she imagined the obsidian inside her chest, wrapping around her heart and mind and soul, keeping what was hers safe from prying eyes.

  How did you do that? asked Juliet.

  You’re not the only clever one, said Runajo. Come on.

  Together they walked down the narrow hall. It turned twice, and then there was a little square room that seemed to have once held a number of potted trees, judging by the pottery shards, the thin layer of dirt scattered around the floor, and the withered, broken branches.

  There were two bodies. The tattered remnants of their robes still clung to them, as did the shriveled remains of their skin. Some of their hair still clung to their skulls; some had fallen to the floor.

  Swallowing, Runajo strode quickly across the room, Juliet at her heels.

  And there were the main doors into the library: dark bronze, carved with the faces of the gods, and glinting faintly in the light of their lamps. There was no handle on the doors, no visible lock or bolt. When Juliet pushed against them, they didn’t move in the slightest.

  Runajo laid a hand against the doors. I am a Sister of Thorn, she told the metal, and she felt a tiny spark of something answer. These doors are mine by right, and I need them to open.

  With no sound except the soft sigh of moving air, the doors swung open.

  Before them was the great stairway down into the library. Runajo had heard of this: a vast, white spiral staircase that curved ten times through the air before it reached the floor of the main library.

  It was not white anymore.

  When Runajo had heard about the last, desperate stand on the staircase, about the Sisters who had cut their own throats to seal the spell that stopped the swarming revenants from setting one foot on the stairs, she had imagined it as something terrible but glorious. But she had not imagined it like this: withered bodies sprawled everywhere, their clothes rotting, their bodies shriveled, their long hair shed onto the floor in circles around their wrinkled heads. She had not imagined how the blood that the Sisters poured out would not remain crimson, but instead turn to dark stains.

  This was, indeed, hers by right: blood and death and withering. It was the only birthright anyone ever had.

  You are not a cheerful companion, said Juliet.

  You can’t tell me you like this place, said Runajo as she started to pick her way down the staircase. She didn’t want to look down at the bodies, but there was no other way to avoid stepping on one. Or on the occasional head or hand that had come loose and rolled down a few steps. Around them, the darkness yawned; she could feel the slight drift of air currents, could hear the echoes of every step they took, but she couldn’t see a thing beyond the stairs just in front of her.

  I have a battle to look forward to, said Juliet. And then a grave.

  She did actually look—not exactly eager, but strangely at ease as she descended the stairs beside Runajo. Maybe that wasn’t surprising: she had been a prisoner before, and now she was, if not free, at least in her element.

  I’m still a prisoner, said Juliet. I just find holding swords a very great consolation.

  Will you stop that? Runajo demanded, thinking of stone again.

  I can’t help that you make it so easy, said Juliet. You’re getting better, though. You’ll be able to do it without thinking about it soon.

  Really? Runajo asked, and the beauty of silent speech was how much skepticism she could put into one unvoiced word.

  Well, Juliet allowed, in a year or two.

  They walked in silence for a while longer, and then Juliet asked, Do the Sisters have any idea what caused it? The Ruining?

  No, said Runajo. Her foot landed in a path of dried blood, and she swallowed. Mostly they think it is simply the end. The sacrifice that the gods poured out to give the world life has run dry, and since the blood of men can never equal the blood of gods, the world must falter and fail.

  Do you think that? asked Juliet.

  Runajo had seen souls walk and she had performed necromancy. She didn’t know what to think anymore.

  I don’t think it matters, she said. Everything dies anyway; I don’t see how dying from a cloud is any different.

  Being torn apart by revenants, I’m sure that’s different, said Juliet.

  Two steps below Runajo, a withered, bony hand lay by itself on the pale stone. Runajo’s heart thudded as she stepped over it.

  They say that it started in the peninsula where our two peoples once lived, she said, trying not to think how soon they would be down in the library. Do you have any ideas about it?

  Some say it was the Sisters, said Juliet. That you went too far, seeking dominion over death. Others say a lone necromancer called it down upon us.

  We don’t seek dominion over death, said Runajo. And it can’t have been a necromancer. Because—

  Necromancy doesn’t exist? The mockery in Juliet’s tone was almost affectionate.

  There’s something I don’t understand, said Runajo. The withered eye sockets of a dead Sister stared up at her, and she stared back, refusing to shudder. If necromancy was possible, then in all of history, more than one person must have figured it out. There’s no power anyone has ever wanted more. If it were done, then it would be done again and again, no matter who tried to stop it. Nobody wou
ld be dead anymore.

  You are more arrogant than my father, said Juliet. Do you imagine that death has so little power? That whatever is wanted enough, can be obtained?

  Runajo huffed out a breath. They were surrounded by the corpses of Sisters who had died buying a protection that wouldn’t last much longer. Of course she knew how futile trying usually was.

  That’s my point, said Runajo. For all of history, nobody has been strong enough to defeat Death. Perhaps necromancy is only possible now because the Ruining broke down the walls between life and death.

  Or, said Juliet, perhaps the first time necromancy was accomplished caused the Ruining.

  It was a strangely plausible thought. If the Sisters were right when they said that necromancy was worse than the Ruining, then perhaps it was the one thing powerful enough to cause it.

  Had that first necromancer meant to cause destruction? Or had he thought that he was bringing a blessing, by conquering the foe that even the Ancients could not stop?

  Maybe he hadn’t cared. Maybe he had been like Runajo’s mother, so desperate for just one person to live that he didn’t care if the whole world burned to achieve it.

  Runajo had never thought highly of her mother, but she supposed that at least she could be thankful that the woman had never even dreamed of necromancy. If she’d had the idea, she would have tried it.

  What had that necromancer thought when he saw the white mist appear? Had he even realized it was deadly?

  Regardless, he had probably been one of the first to die, for which he should count himself lucky. Living with the burden of destroying the balance of life and death was not a fate that Runajo would wish on anyone.

  And now here she was, one hundred years later, cleaning up his mess.

  They were over halfway down the stairs now. Runajo stubbed her toe against a corpse—it didn’t hurt, of course, but she still sprang back as if burned, and Juliet had to grab her shoulder to steady her.

  Had something made a noise in the darkness just now? Or was that only an echo of the corpse shifting when she kicked it?

  We need to go faster, said Juliet. When they attack, we can’t get caught on this stairway. They won’t be able to hurt us here, but we’d never break through their numbers.

  Runajo’s back prickled. Can you sense them coming?

  Not exactly, said Juliet. I don’t know where they are, I don’t know how many. But I know they are somewhere close.

  Her heartbeat picking up, Runajo found her way down the staircase faster and faster. When her feet hit the floor, she let out a little sigh of relief . . . even though now the danger really began.

  And then the lights came on.

  She had known about them: the one hundred and thirteen stars, floating in the upper air of the Sunken Library. She had assumed that they were destroyed, or that their power had withered and faded. But now the glowing orbs blossomed above her, so bright she could barely look at them.

  And she could see the Sunken Library.

  It was huge. It didn’t even feel like she was indoors. The vaulted ceiling so far above them could just as well be the sky; she could see why the lights in it were called stars. Far away before her, she could see the looming face of Ka, god of memory, growing out of the walls. The bookshelves looked tiny in comparison to the rest, and yet they were easily four times her height, every one of them equipped with two sliding ladders.

  All across the floor were scattered bare white bones. Nothing had escaped the revenants’ teeth.

  Do you know where to go? asked Juliet, and there was a strange sense of calm to her voice.

  Yes, said Runajo. She had pored over every record she could find. She was almost sure.

  Then start running, said Juliet.

  Far off to their right, something rustled.

  Runajo didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted forward, feet light and swift, straight toward the face of Ka. Bones clattered and crunched beneath her feet, and she wanted to cringe at the sounds, but the revenants were coming and there was no time.

  They reached the first rows of bookcases, and with a hiss, a pair of revenants leaped out at them. They looked, horribly, like people: hairless, eyeless, naked people whose skin had in some places turned shiny and crinkly, in others rotted away.

  Because they had once been people, before they died. And then returned.

  Juliet spun into motion without missing a step. Her blades whirled, sliced, and then two heads fell to the ground. The bodies of the revenants swayed a moment longer before they also collapsed.

  Keep going, Juliet snapped, and Runajo started running again.

  The problem was, she was getting near the end of her strength, and Runajo cursed her own foolishness. She should have known that this quest would involve running away from monsters. If she’d been thinking, she could have spent the last six months running up and down the stairways of the Cloister. She could have been ready for this. Instead she was going to die and get Juliet killed as well, just because there was one way she hadn’t thought to prepare.

  Suddenly Juliet grabbed her arm and yanked her back. Runajo stumbled, flailing, and by the time she had gotten her balance again, Juliet had finished off a revenant in front of them.

  Runajo had nearly run into it headfirst.

  Thank you, she said, and felt a sudden wave of shock and fear from Juliet.

  Like Juliet, she looked back.

  There were hundreds of revenants. Perhaps thousands. Runajo didn’t know and didn’t much care; all she knew was that they were swarming through the library like ants driven out of a nest, utterly silent except for the rustle of their feet against the floor as they crept forward, drawn by the sound and smell of human flesh.

  Keep running, said Juliet, and there was nothing now in her voice but pure, ruthless determination.

  They ran. Runajo didn’t feel tired now. She didn’t even exactly feel afraid. She felt like her body had turned into pure light and fire, or like it was being whirled forward by a mighty wind, and all she could do was watch. Watch, and think, We aren’t going fast enough. We’re going to be dead.

  They were starting to get close to the face of Ka. But the revenants were running faster.

  Are we running for someplace defensible? asked Juliet.

  I hope so, said Runajo.

  And then they were there. They were skidding to a stop right beneath the huge chin of Ka, and there was a short little hallway burrowing into the wall, and at the end of it was a door.

  Defensible. Slightly. The revenants couldn’t rush them as badly here, which meant Runajo might be able to get the inner door open in time.

  Then they’d find out if there were any revenants on the other side.

  Juliet whirled to face the main library as soon as she was inside the hall. Get to the door, she said, and there was a razor-sharp grin in her voice. See if you’re good enough to save us.

  20

  “WE NEED TO BE SUBTLE,” said Paris that evening, as they sat together in Justiran’s spare room. Sheaves of extra herbs hung from the ceiling; the smell tickled at Paris’s nose. “And we need to agree on a story ahead of time. Not like with the City Guard today.”

  “What was wrong with that?” asked Romeo, and blew on the tea he held cupped in his hands.

  “She didn’t believe you,” said Paris. “And it was completely embarrassing. What possessed you to spin that story?”

  Romeo half smiled. “There’s nothing shameful about love.”

  He had been very quiet as they made their way back to Justiran’s house, and he had remained quiet all evening as they ate dinner, as Paris told him about his first meeting with Vai, as they made their plans to find him again. But now that Paris was annoyed with him, at last he seemed to be cheering up.

  Maybe Paris should have pitied him a little longer.

  “There’s something shameful in thinking all the world lives your story,” said Paris. “Didn’t it occur to you that not all of us are busy getting ourselves killed for
feelings we fancy are love? Think of all the other people you’ve known.”

  “I don’t really know anyone,” said Romeo, “except Juliet and Makari and Runajo and Justiran. And you too, I suppose. But I can’t conceal your identity by telling people about your own life, and I don’t think you want me telling people that you drink as much as Makari does, and I never understood Runajo to begin with, and nobody would believe that either of us was an apothecary. So that leaves me and Juliet.”

  The words were cheerful enough, but they were accompanied by a wave of wistful sadness that Paris felt he had no choice but to completely ignore.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Sorry.”

  Romeo grinned. “You can’t order me on that one. I really can’t stop.”

  “You weren’t raised in a cage,” Paris went on. “Even if you don’t have friends, you have family.”

  He expected Romeo to say, No, of course I have friends, they flock to hear my poetry. But he didn’t.

  “Of course I have family,” said Romeo, and there was an uneasy sort of cheerfulness to his voice. “But it’s all on my father’s side and they could hardly be expected to have that much time to waste on me. That’s why I had Makari for a tutor. Anyway, most of them didn’t like my mother. They say that’s why she killed herself—I don’t know, I was only a baby. I mean, my father liked her very much—that’s why his other women hated her—but of course he was too busy.”

  “Your tutor raised you,” said Paris.

  “Well, not from a baby,” said Romeo. “Obviously.” And Paris caught a flickering memory of nannies and quiet attendants. Of watching a tall, silk-robed man from across a courtyard and thinking, Father.

  It was only to be expected. The high-ranking Mahyanai took several concubines along with their wives, and of course it would lead to jealousy and neglected children.

  Paris was uncomfortably aware that he had seen his own father hardly more often. But he, at least, had been a legitimate son. There had been a way for him to earn his place in his family, even if . . . he hadn’t ever really been good enough.